As soon as I get home, I lock all the doors and windows and pour myself a large glass of red wine. I gulp it down and pour another, this time sipping it slowly. My heart feels as though it is about to explode from my chest and I’m shaking so badly that I must make myself take deep breaths. As soon as I am able, I call Pat, the lab manager and tell her what happened. I miss out the man coming to my rescue part and just say that, eventually, Roland had a change of heart and let me go. She promises to bring this to the attention of Human Resources and the board of trustees in the morning, then hangs up. I am tempted to call the police, but figure I should wait to see what happens at work first. Besides, police mean questions and questions could lead to me telling them about the man. For some reason, I don’t want to draw attention to that part.

I glance at my wristwatch, it’s half past nine. I’ve missed my favourite soaps on TV and I am not at all hungry. Deciding a long soak in the bath is what I need the most, I head upstairs to the bathroom.

Frothy bubbles form on the surface of the water as the bath fills. I remove my watch, placing it on the vanity unit. It is only then that I notice the ring on my finger. I can’t believe I’d forgotten about it. I try to pull it off, but my attempts are halted when a burning pain sears my skin.

“What the hell is this?” I say out loud. My scientific brain kicking in, I peer more closely at the ring. When it had first appeared on my finger, I could have sworn that red, cursive, writing appeared across its surface. Now there is nothing. It is just a plain gold band about quarter of an inch thick. It looks old, the gold faded and scratched. I can’t understand why it is on my finger, and more to the point, why I can’t take it off. Giving it one last yank and finding myself in more agony, I decide to ease myself into the bath instead. Perhaps the water will help me slide it off my finger.

I must have fallen asleep because when I awake the water has gone cold and the bubbles have mostly dispersed. Telling myself off for falling asleep in the bath, I get out and grab a warm towel from the rail and dry myself thoroughly. Then I wipe the mirror, so I can take the day’s make-up off. Despite my awful condition, I cannot deny that I have beautiful, flawless skin, even if that skin turns into painful blisters the moment the sun touches it. I suppose it is both a blessing and a curse. More curse than blessing, though. My mother used to call it alabaster, and I suppose it is. I’m very pale; not being able to go out in the sun has that affect, funnily enough. My straight hair is naturally long and black, making me look paler still. My eyes are a dark brown and currently lined with smudged mascara. My only saving grace are my lips. I’ve never had any need to wear lipstick as they are naturally bright red. Kissable lips, my mother used to say. Sadly, for me, the only kissing lately has been unwanted. The thought of what Roland might have done had that man not come along makes me shudder. I’ve had very few relationships, most not lasting longer than a few weeks. All the men I’ve dated in the past dumped me the moment they found out I didn’t like to go out during the day. It wasn’t much fun spending all day inside when you lived by the coast, especially during summer. They also had an issue with the fact that I was a workaholic. Once they’d got what they wanted from me, I was pretty much old news anyway. They’d all been deadbeats in one way or another.

Picking up the toner and cotton wool, I remove the last of the mascara, then smear my face in cream. Even though I am the wrong side of twenty-five, I don’t look much older than twenty. No sun equals no lines. I try once again to remove the ring, but get another burning pain for my effort. I give up, figuring that I would do something about it in the morning.

I head into bed, not bothering to put any nightclothes on and drift off into a fitful sleep…

A warm hand strokes down my arm as my eyes flutter open. Sitting on the bed next to me is the man from the carpark. He smiles. “Are you feeling better?” he asks. I nod my head, suddenly unable to speak. “I am glad of it. You won’t have any problems with that man anymore. I made sure he will never touch you again.” I hear the words he is saying but find myself completely distracted by the fact that he is still caressing my arm. His touch is doing strange things to my imagination and my body. My skin tingles pleasantly under his touch and I find my mind wandering to where I’d like his touch next.

An involuntary moan slips from my mouth and his eyes darken. I can feel his gaze on my neck as I turn my head towards the side, pressing my face into the pillow. The faint sound of warning bells rings in my head and I wonder why I feel the need to bare my neck to him, wonder why part of me is afraid whilst the rest is desperate for more than his touch.

“Accacia, don’t do that,” he whispers. The warmth of his hand is removed, and I feel bereft.

“Wait,” I say, grabbing onto his arm. “Don’t go.” I don’t know why I am asking a stranger to remain in my bedroom, or why his touch has such a profound effect on me. Then I realise I must be sleeping and relax into the dream, content that the only danger is my imagination, and right now I’m enjoying every bit of it.

He considers me for a moment, but he doesn’t place his hand back on my bare skin, even though I want nothing more than for him to do so.

“I came to see if you were ok, that is all. I need nothing else from you right now,” he says, running a shaking hand through his hair. I sense his need to leave, but I don’t want him to go. Sitting up in bed, I reach out to him, my hand pressing against his cheek. “Stay,” I whisper.

His eyes trail over my body and I realise that my duvet has slipped down, revealing my breasts to him.

“I cannot,” he says, standing abruptly. I know he wants to, I can tell by the way he is devouring me with his eyes.

I surprise myself when I trail a hand over my breast, cupping it gently. His eyes darken, and I can see his body sway, unsure now. “Stay,” I say as I slide a finger over my hardened nipple.

He seems to shake himself, and I am not certain who is in a trance, him or me.

“I cannot.” He raises his hand and before I know what is happening, I am falling back onto the pillow, my eyes closing once again.

I wake with a start, sitting up in bed. My breathing is heavy, laboured, and I feel strangely tense as though I am on the verge of something. A tiny moan escapes my lips as the full force of the dream comes back to me. I realise what it is that I need, and I feel my face heat at the thought. The fact that I was dreaming of that strange man has me feeling all out of sorts. I mean, he was terrifying, and handsome. “I need a coffee,” I say to myself, shaking those thoughts aside.

Stepping out of bed, I see daylight trail through the curtains and realise I have overslept. It’s just as well Pat gave me the day off to get over my ordeal. Tomorrow is the weekend, so I have three lonely days to look forward to, trapped in these four walls. Great.

Trying to be positive, I think about all the research I can do and resolve to get myself out of this brewing funk before it incapacitates me entirely. In the past I’ve been so miserable that depression has kept me in bed for days on end. Those days were the hardest, but not today. Despite it all I will not allow the depression to swallow me. I have direction now, I am determined to find a cure. In three years, I will turn thirty and there is no way I am going to remain trapped like this, not if I can help it.

It is surprisingly bright for a winter’s day, and I do my best to avoid the stream of light peeking through the curtains. I stand in front of it, ruminating on how I should pass, and decide to just go for it. The sunlight catches the skin on my bare shoulder, burning me there.

“Bugger,” I say, covering up my nakedness and newly formed blister with a robe. Looks like I am staying put today, at least until after dark.

Heading downstairs, I see Mr Tickle, my Burmese cat, run straight up the stairs like he’s just seen the devil himself. “What’s up, Mr Tickle?” I call, but he’s already headed into my bedroom and under my bed. I’ll deal with him later. Coffee first.

Since I inherited this house from my mother I’ve made some adaptations, funds permitting, to help me live better with my condition. My kitchen is a large, open plan space with floor to ceiling windows. Great if you love the sun, not so great if the sun is trying to kill you. After my first real close call as a child, I was banned from going into the kitchen until after dark. Now I have remote controlled blinds that close the moment dawn breaks and open again once the sky is dark. They work so well that I must turn the kitchen light on the moment I open the door, otherwise it’s pitch black.

Grabbing this morning’s paper from the mat by the front door, I push my bum against the kitchen door and flick the light switch on. I head straight for the pot of coffee percolating on the work top and pour myself a cup. I like it strong and black, no sugar.

“Good morning, Accacia,” I hear behind me.

I spin around, the fright causing me to drop both the cup and the jug of coffee on the floor. They shatter, splashing hot coffee up my bare legs. It burns.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” I say, before losing my balance, the pain of the hot coffee making me feel dizzy.

The man from last night, the man from dreams, is by my side in an instant, scooping me up into his arms. “Whoa, take it easy,” he says.

I consider his sapphire eyes, then pass out.